


Freeform

by fridaysblues (taemin)



Series: DJ Chanyeol AU [3]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Creative writing class, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 18:16:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4069774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taemin/pseuds/fridaysblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongin has to take a poetry class, so he drags Chanyeol along with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freeform

As usual, he waits too long to register, so the selection of classes with space available is slim. "Why does a dancer need to know how to write poetry?" he complains to Chanyeol, pushing his laptop away to sprawl across the bedspread. He's on Chanyeol's bed again, arms and legs spread awkwardly to take up the most amount of space. Chanyeol's always able to to find room for his lanky body anyway and nudges Jongin aside to flop next to him, his body so warm.

"They don't," Chanyeol's voice hums merrily in that annoying tone he always reserves for when he's teasing Jongin. "They need to learn not to leave things to the last minute. That's the real lesson here." Jongin really wants to argue the point further but Chanyeol kisses him right then and promises he'll take the class with him since he's got that hour free anyway, and the discussion's effectively over.

 

—

 

Jongin's already regretting it the first day. He keeps reminding himself that he needs the composition credit and he can't graduate without it, and it sure beats reading dense, classic literature all day, which had been his other option. 

Heavily, he sits back in his chair and immediately feels self-conscious when the desk squawks backwards a few painfully noisy inches. Everyone stares at him for a moment, and then chuckles awkwardly.

They're encouraged to sit in a circle, lumbering desks dragged, screeching, into an approximation of a horseshoe that wouldn't pass inspection by a blind farrier. Somehow Chanyeol ends up on the opposite side of the room, pulling faces at Jongin when he dares look up from his paper. 

"What are five things you love? We'll read these at the start of class next week."

They're supposed to be free writing for the last fifteen minutes of class but Jongin doesn't tend to think in words if he can help it so this assignment's kind of a pain in the ass—he thinks in movements, thinks of curled fingers, bent knees, the serpentine of a spine as it coils back on itself. He thinks in counts of three or four, the flex of an ankle or a crooked elbow. Smaller gestures, too, like the way Chanyeol reaches out in his sleep to pull Jongin closer or the bumping of their pinkie fingers as they interlock to swing between their bodies, bridging the gap as they walk to class.

And writing all of that down just sounds too fucking cheesy, even for an introductory poetry class. Not like he's going to write some fucking love sonnet for his boyfriend and read it to everyone, not when Chanyeol's right there and can hear it. It seems way too intimate. Jongin doesn't like sharing these parts of himself with strangers. It was hard enough to open up to Chanyeol and let him in. 

He scribbles down something about sleep and then adds a few lines about how he loves his bed and his pillow and when he's in them he could sleep forever. He does not include the part where he and Chanyeol have been sharing a bed for the better part of a year, that really what makes him feel cozy and safe in his bed is when he's knocking knees with Chanyeol under the cover, elbowing him for a few more feet of the duvet, or listening to Chanyeol complain about his arms falling asleep because Jongin's lying on them again. How he doesn't sleep well anymore on the nights they spend apart because he's too busy checking his phone every fifteen minutes, waiting for the next message to come in.

He writes down something else about food. Generic things. Fast food, his favorite chicken spot just off campus. He does not write down that he loves it when Chanyeol comes home late from a gig with grease-splattered paper bags full of take out. He does not write down that he loves sitting on their living room floor to eat it, that usually they fall asleep cuddling each other afterwards, too food coma'd out to even attempt fucking, but it's okay, he still feels so loved, listening to Chanyeol's stomach rumble, smelling Chanyeol's greasy, garlicky breath. It sounds gross, but Jongin's realizing that love is completely disgusting.

(And he loves it).

Stumped, he looks across the room again. His gaze falls on Chanyeol. It always goes to Chanyeol, every time he's in the room he's literally all Jongin can see. He almost wants to say it's a problem, but Chanyeol's way too much of a good thing to ever be much of a problem. 

Jongin spends a lot of time thinking about hands. He's watching Chanyeol's now, in fact, clutching at a ballpoint pen that seems doll-sized in comparison. It doesn't help he's got a terrible grip, which explains his incredibly poor penmanship. The first time Chanyeol wrote him a note, he'd almost needed a translation. It hasn't gotten much better in the year since.

He looks down at his paper and scribbles another word underneath the stuff about sleep and food.

_hands._

Chanyeol's touch is a constant. Whenever he's within arms length there's always something—a thumb resting at the base of his neck, an arm hooked around his waist, thighs pressed together beneath a table. Chanyeol hasn't been able to keep his hands off of Jongin, ever since the first date. Jongin's started to feel naked without the warmth of Chanyeol's palm somewhere on his body.

But there's also Chanyeol's DJing gigs. The way his fingertips move to push a record back, scratch it, twist a knob here, a dial there. Jongin's sat in the booth with Chanyeol a dozen times or more by now and he still can't quite follow everything that Chanyeol's doing, but he kind of likes it that way because at least it hasn't spoiled the magic for him. And the way Chanyeol plays guitar—his skilled fingers pushing down strings, making chords, singing to Jongin even after he's had a long night at the club and his voice is splitting and raw, it's still one of the best things Jongin's ever heard. 

He watches Chanyeol write a few more things down before he decisively drops his pen to the desk and look up at Jongin. "You okay?" Chanyeol mouths, brow furrowing with concern when he sees Jongin's kind of just staring off into space and not writing anything. Jongin smiles broadly and nods. He thinks he knows what he's going to write his first assignment on. He thinks he's brave enough to do this, and regardless, it's not like he's going to see any of these people after this class is over anyway.

Five things he loves? There's more than five, but he's going to have to narrow it down to the top five things he loves about Chanyeol.

 

—

 

So he writes an entire poem about Chanyeol, in list form. It's rough and it doesn't even rhyme, but he figures that's okay because the professor confirmed that their assignments don't have to rhyme if they don't want them to. He can't look up from his paper and his hands just won't stop shaking when the professor makes him stand up to read the poem out loud to the entire class, but when he looks up and sees Chanyeol's stupid, dopey grin, he finds the nervousness melting away.

The professor compliments him after class and tells him to keep up the honesty in his work. "You've got a gift," she says, shuffling papers. Chanyeol overhears and slips his arm through Jongin's, linking their elbows.

"Man, why'd you have to do that?" Chanyeol complains as they make their way down the staircase of the language arts building, flushed down to the tips of his ears. "You could have just written a thing about how much you like to dance and nobody would have given a shit. Everyone was staring at me."

Jongin shrugs. "We were told to write what came to mind first. Something that we truly love, and that's you."

"That's cheesy," Chanyeol says, but his smile is so wide it's practically manic. "Since when do you take poetry seriously?"

"Since now," Jongin says, pushing his face close enough to kiss Chanyeol. "Didn't you hear? I've got a gift."

**Author's Note:**

> Written last summer.


End file.
